Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Last week many of you grabbed your flashlights, braved the cobwebsand eased out the wedding china from its hiding place, box by pristinebox, to adorn your Thanksgiving tables. Some of you probably held yourbreath each time someone slurped from a precious coffee cup or clinkeda fork down a little too hard on a salad plate.

You might havecounted the minutes until you could wash and dry the whole mess (byhand, of course) and then return each setting to its proper box –cardboard dividers and all. Your guests measured the success of yourholiday meal by the quality of the food. You, secretly, used the numberof chipped dishes as your metric: No matter how delicious yourmarshmallow yams were, if that cow-shaped creamer broke, the eveningwas ruined.

When we were getting married, Hubby tried todissuade me from registering for fine china. He anticipated that peoplewould shell out a lot of money for a delicate albatross that would lurksilently in our house, emerging only on the rarest occasions to driveme completely batty.

Hetold me we would likely never use fine china. As it happens, we've usedour pretty calla lily-embossed settings very nearly eight times. Ormaybe it was five.

"Why do we need china?" he asked me back then.

"Because," was my answer.

Intruth, I had no idea why we needed china, but Mom and the woman atMacy's told me we did, and I was too young to argue. At the time, theyequated china with the little black dress: You always want to have onein your closet. But the difference is, I get actual use out of mylittle black dress – and it doesn't take up nearly as much room in thecloset.

My girlfriends who waited until after puberty to getmarried were a little wiser. They now keep food in their pantriesinstead of punch bowls and cake plates. I'm slightly envious of peoplewho managed to get a marriage license without a gravy boat. These arepeople who don't own a single silver napkin ring – and have had nooccasion to learn that I have 12.

Each time we've moved, I'vebeen the one to pack the kitchen – never wanting Hubby to get a goodinventory of the insane amount of underused stuff we keep hidden away.

I know what he'd say after packing his 17th box of fondue sets and caviar spoons: "Why did we register for this again?"

My answer would be the same as it was back then: "Because."

Because,like serving turkey on Thanksgiving, collecting useless tableadornments is a tradition. We load up married couples with plenty toprepare them for special occasions and precious little to prepare themfor life. Collectively, we perpetuate the myth that expensive stemwareis an heirloom in the making, rather than a thing couples fight aboutevery time a glass breaks. We all do it. And we will all keep doing ituntil civilization comes crashing down in a giant crescendo of brokenpumpkin-shaped soup tureens.

If we didn't keep doing it, if wegave newlyweds presents they'd actually use – like toilet paper orgroceries or retainer fees for a divorce attorney – then when we wentover to their homes for dinner once every two years, we'd have to pilefood onto everyday plates, covering it with ladled gravy and eating itwith mismatched flatware. Chaos.

And worse, the unencumberedcouple would have gotten off scot-free. Babies don't wear handmadebooties, but that won't stop people from knitting them. We will keepheaping unwanted treasures onto newlyweds because we had this stufffoisted onto us.

So for those out there who hosted Thanksgivingdinner this year and hazarded your finest china in the hands of AuntieNeanderthal and her ADHD-afflicted brood, I raise my glass to you.And set it back down. Very, very carefully.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

I dread The Question almost as much asI dread that puff of air they always shoot into your eyes to test forglaucoma. Nearly every visit to the eye doctor involves someone asking,"Have you considered laser eye surgery?" And I just dread it.

I usually cast a dilated eye downward and mutter something like, "Yeah. I don't think it's for me."

Some docs push it harder than others, but pretty much all of them do a hard sell. Imagine never needing to fuss with contacts and glasses again! Imagine waking up and being able to see!

And when I resist they almost always think it's because I'm some Luddite coward. The technology has improved dramatically and the results are fabulous!

Truthis, I'm not afraid of lasers in my eye (though I think hirsute lil' mewould be better served if the lasers were pointed more southward). Ijust don't want to give up my bad vision.

I know that sounds ridiculous. That's why I dread the question.

True, I can't see myown face in the mirror unless I'm so close to the glass that my breathsteams over my reflection. And true, my handicap forever prevents mefrom being a pilot in the Air Force or a viable contestant on"Survivor." But I can live with these limitations.

What I don't think I could live with is a completely altered identity.

I'vealways been the "blind girl." I was the blind girl when I was 6, and Ihad to squint at all the puppets and overhead projections andchalk-drawn alphabet letters that the rest of my first-grade classseemed to have no problem seeing. I was the blind girl in the secondgrade, when an astute teacher finally figured out what was going on andmentioned to my parents that I might need glasses. I was still theblind girl in the third grade, when an overly indulgent teacher let mestand by the chalkboard during her lessons like some kind of magician'sassistant.

And I was the blind girl in the fourth grade, when Ifinally convinced my stubborn father to pretty please let me get someglasses so I could go to school and, you know, learn stuff.

Daddidn't much like the idea of his pretty daughter covering up her facewith homely glasses, so he built up a cataract of denial around mydeteriorating vision.

Whenhe finally did concede -- after a teacher's intervention -- I had toagree to only wear my specs in the classroom. If I was going to beugly, I'd have to do it on my own time.

I interpreted hisadmonition to mean that I couldn't wear my glasses on the playground,either. And it was there that my strained vision gave me two things Ilove more than anything else: attention and an excuse not to exercise.

Can'tplay dodge ball if you can't see what you're dodging. So, instead, I'dsit on the sidelines and mock the boys until they cracked little smilesat my jokes or gave up their games altogether to talk to me.

Dadand I reached a détente when contact lenses became more popular andreadily available. He never understood why my vision (and then later mysister's vision) was bad, but he finally admitted it was and shelledout the money for my first pair of contacts.

Since then, myblindness has been less of an attention-getter than an escape. Otherpeople with bad eyes might disagree with me, but there is somethingalmost soothing about taking out your contacts and not being able tosee anything. A kind of visual shush that absolves you of theresponsibility of sight. I don't meditate, but a few minutes of blurryvision every day comes close.

So I was relieved the other daywhen my new eye doc didn't ask The Question. We talked about changing thetype of contact lenses I wear. We talked about getting new frames formy glasses. And then, without any mention of lasers, she sent me to thereceptionist to place my order.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

I thought I was adjusting well to this new lifestyle. Thisone-income, live-in-an-apartment, limit-our-travel lifestyle. Then thebed broke, and I snapped.

Zev, Hubby and I were all piled onthe bed, and Hubby started jumping up and down, to the delight of ourtoddler. I was less thrilled.

When I first married Hubby, I remember telling a friend that I felt as though we'd gotten away with a spectacular prank.

My exact words were: "Don't they know we're just kids? Don't they know we eat chocolate cake for breakfast and jump on the bed?"

Thatbed wasn't even a bed. It was a box spring and a mattress on the floor.To compensate for the lack of actual furniture, I hung two rings fromthe wall where a headboard would have been and draped a piece of palegreen fabric between them. We called it "the swoosh." It was all thefurniture we could afford, and it was all the furniture we needed.

Tocomplete the adolescent look, we kept stuffed animals on the bed alongwith a pile of seven extraneous pillows that I thought added adeceptive height to the whole mess.

Even after we bought a realbed, after we bought a house and replaced every bit of Ikea furniturein our home with big-boy-and-girl pieces, we still kept the stuffedanimals where they were. I thought it was triumph of youthful heartsover encroaching age. But it turns out stuffed monkeys don't a carefreegirl make.

When the bed broke, I grabbed Zev and huffed out ofthe room. Hubby lingered in the bedroom for a minute and then met me inthe kitchen. There was a split in the wood. That was his postmortemassessment. A split in the wood that was probably going to go at anytime.

But it didn't go at any time. It went now. And now, Ifeel as though we're back where we were 10 years ago: living in anapartment and sleeping on the floor. But we're no longer thosewide-eyed kids awestruck by our good fortune. We don't eat chocolatecake for breakfast. And, clearly, we're too old to jump on the bed.

Thedam that had been holding back my insecurities collapsed right alongwith that bed frame. What are we doing? Where are we going? Why did Iquit my job? How is any of this possibly in Zev's best interest?

Iwas mad. At Hubby. At me. At first I was so mad, I refused to speak.Then I said a few cruel things that I immediately regretted. In termsof "in good times and in bad," this doesn't even come close to theworst we've seen. It's fixable. A not-very-expensive fix at that.

Theold me would have found the whole thing funny, really. For one, thetiming was impeccable. Hadn't I just been warning Hubby not to teachZev to jump on the bed "because, you know, it could…?"

But Ididn't laugh. It's startling to snap/crack/boom onto a pile ofsplintered wood. It's more startling, still, to find out you're nolonger the old you.

Eventually I apologized to Hubby and helpedhim carry the bed frame into the garage. He said he'd look for afurniture maker to replace the broken beam, and I'd ask some of myinterior designer friends for advice.

That night, as we were falling asleep, he said, "It's kinda fun. Sleeping like this."

Ismiled in the dark at his attitude. He doubts our decisions and worriesabout our future as much as I do. But he's able to laugh about it. Iresolved to do the same.

"Fun? I don't know about that," I said. "But at least now we can jump on the bed all we want."

Monday, November 6, 2006

My belly is flabby. My memory is shot. I'm tired all the time, andI've been known to slip into baby talk with friends and colleagues.

But motherhood has endowed me with a superpower. A talent the likes of which I never expected I could possess: punctuality.

Iused to be pathologically late. My husband once asked me if I ate time,because he had trouble figuring out what else I could have done withit. I was the person you lied to about movie start times. I showed uplate to Lorene's wedding and gave her a great big hug, only to be told,"Um, Mayrav, it's nice to see you, but the reason all those people arelooking at me right now is that I'm about to walk down the aisle. Socould you please find a seat?"

Now? Now, I'm not only on time,I'm the kind of on-time that takes into account parking and slowelevators. The best thing about my new superpower, though, is that ithas given me the ability to predict exactly how late other people aregoing to be.

Mom's hair appointment was at noon in the Valley. She said she was going to come over right after.

"So I'll see you at 5?" I said.

"What 5?" she said "My appointment is at noon. I'll be there at 2."

"OK."

In the meantime, Keren called to see if I'd be free for a late lunch, "sometime around 3."

I thought about it for about a half-second.

"Yeah. I'll be able to make it."

Later, when my mom showed up, I looked at the clock. 4:50 p.m.

WhenLisa said she wanted to stop by for coffee in the afternoon, I tooksteaks out of the freezer. I figured afternoon on Planet Lisa meant 6p.m. Earth time, but then figuring for traffic, she could easily behere as late as 7. And she'd be hungry. Her arrival time? 8 p.m. We hada delightful dinner.

Former late arrivers are the opposite offormer smokers: We're totally mellow about it. But late arrivers are ajittery lot, all apologies and overcompensation. In Lisa's case, sheusually buys the first two rounds if she's late meeting a friend at abar. (Note to self: Invite Lisa to more bars.)

"I want you to know, I'm trying to reform myself," Lisa said, when I called her later. "I've gotten much better."

"Yeah? What are you doing differently?"

"I'm trying not to take on too many things."

Lisa,it should be noted, was talking to me from the self-checkout kiosk ofthe grocery store where she was buying a few last-minute items thatshe'd forgotten for the pasta sauce that she'd left cooking on thestove at home.

"How's that going for you?"

Lisasaid lateness comes from a desire to please – you don't want to say noto anything, so you end up taking on too much and showing up late toall of it. "I don't want to come off looking bad, but I always do."

She didn't need to explain. I'm the same way. Or at least I was.

I'dlike to say that Zev has inspired a greater focus in my life. Or thatmy desire to spend quality time with him forces me to work faster, moreefficiently and manage my time better. I'd like to say a lot of thingsthat people always say after they have kids. The truth is, I think Iwas zapped with a gamma ray. I'm simply not the same human being I usedto be.

But while Lisa was busy analyzing the root cause of hertardiness ("I always underestimate how long it takes to do anything"),I was trying hard not to think too much about my new superpower, forfear I'd lose it. If Lisa wants to reform her ways, I want to help out– offer some advice from my own life experience. But "have a kid"sounds as ridiculous as "get bitten by a radioactive spider."

LuckilyI got out of it the same way I got into it: Zev. It was nearing hisbedtime and I had pajamas to put on, books to read and snuggling to do.So I got off the phone.